


Praxus

by sarahgayle1214



Series: The Praxus Anthology [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 09:15:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15167480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahgayle1214/pseuds/sarahgayle1214
Summary: “Ya wanna talk about it? Ya know… what happened?”“Not at this moment, no.”“The fatal error that caused the crash you just witnessed occurred approximately 8.35 joors ago while I was on duty in the Command Center.”“Don’t try ta lie ta me, Prowler. I’ve seen you crash. That ain’t it. Primus sake, mech. Are ya gonna tell me what’s wrong or what?”“Jazz, I am not certain I can.”





	Praxus

Jazz always knew a mission had gone bad when Prowl was quiet. He knew it was horrific when he was silent.

The moment the message had come into the Autobot Command Center the tactician had tensed, doorwings flaring slightly in shock. And he had said nothing, seeming frozen for the briefest of moments. Even after missions gone sideways and battles where the only victory was survival, Prowl spoke, issuing the next orders or planning the next battle, always on to the next step without hesitation. Yes, after such tragedies he was typically more reserved - responses shorter, tone more clipped, wings stiffer - but he always was still logical and unaffected. 

This time was different. Granted, Prowl’s pause had been slight, his movements small - nothing anyone else would have noticed. But Jazz was Ops; it was his job to notice. And more than that, Prowl was his friend, one of the few people he trusted. He knew his friend and he knew when something wasn’t right. Prowl had done his job, issuing orders to rescue teams and organizing search efforts, but any attempt to talk to the Praxian otherwise had been rebuffed with icy silence and a frighteningly blank stare that spoke volumes. 

Prowl had not left Command for almost five joors when Jazz had last checked. Unwilling to sit and do nothing while an entire city burned and his best friend worked himself to the struts out of guilt, Jazz had gone to his office. He had his agents - the ones not currently in the field - scouring their intelligence for what they had missed, what little sign that had gone unnoticed to let this travesty occur. Such things were little consolation. And so Jazz sat, alone at his cluttered desk in his rarely used office and thought. And he grieved. 

An entire city was gone. Just like that. The attack had come with no warning, no time for to order an evacuation or mount a defense. Not that it would have mattered; Praxus was neutral and had no plan in case of attack. No one had thought it would need one. 

Why? What had been the reason for such an attack? Praxus posed no threat to the Decepticon army; the city was famous as a haven for the arts and a stronghold of pacifism. Insular and stubborn, Praxus welcomed few outsiders and rarely sent natives outside its borders. Almost all Praxians in existence had been in Praxus, the city’s culture and history erased but for the measly scraps in the hands of survivors. And for what? It was senseless, meant only to defeat the spirit rather than secure a victory. It was violence and destruction simply for their own sake. It was unfathomable. 

Resting his helm in his hands with a sigh, Jazz barely noticed when his comm pinged him with an incoming message. 

:Jazz here.: He answered wearily, not moving from his pose.

:I have something to ask of you, Jazz.: Optimus sighed, sounding worn and troubled. 

:Anythin’. Whadda ya need, Prime?: The Ops mech sat up, mentally gathering himself. 

:Prowl has been in the Command Center for the last eight joors. I am concerned about him.: 

:Understood, Prime. On it.:

Jazz found the Praxian still at the same console as before, optics locked on the screen as he supervised the rescue efforts. Unfortunately, all that the rescuers were finding were the grayed out frames of the dead. Jazz sighed heavily. It was a massacre. Pulling two cubes he had snagged from the rec room out of subspace, he approached the Praxian. 

“Brought ya some energon.” He said quietly, offering a cube. 

Prowl’s glazed optics trailed from the cube in his hand up his arm to finally land on his face. While such a move at any other time could have been licentious, his gaze lacked the necessary heat, optics colder than deep space. Nodding his thanks, the Praxian took the cube and returned his gaze to the screen. 

“When’s the last time ya got any ‘charge?” Jazz took a step closer, mouth creased with concern.

The tactician said nothing, but his taciturn mask faltered, wings twitching downward and mouth pressing into a firm line. 

“Uh huh. It’s been at least sixteen joors. Ya already pulled a full shift before this started. Come on. Ya need ta go recharge.” Jazz commanded lightly, one guiding hand on the Praxian’s elbow. 

Prowl pulled away gently, extracting himself from the Polyhexian’s grasp and continuing to watch the carnage on the screen. 

“Unh uh. Come on, Prowler.” Jazz commanded a little more fiercely. “I already got Trailbreaker on his way up to take over. I promise, if anythin’ happens, he’ll let ya know. But ya need ta rest. Yer no good ta anybody if ya‘ve worked yerself inta stasis.” 

“I have my duty.” Was the soft but firm reply.

“And it’s not yours alone.” Jazz replied, visored gaze silently demanding surrender. “Now c’mon before I have ta order you out.”

“We are of equal rank, Jazz. Such a thing is not possible.”

“Maybe. But Prime’s the one who sent me. Ya really want me ta call him in?”

He paused at that, calculations flickering behind his optics. Jazz knew the moment he made a decision by the way the Praxian’s shoulders slumped, the fight bleeding out of his frame. 

“I concede.” Prowl sighed, allowing himself to be pulled away from the console and towards the door, tucking the untouched cube into subspace. 

Jazz flashed a wave at the incoming Trailbreaker, continuing to guide Prowl out the door and towards the Tactical Head’s quarters. He knew Prowl was more than capable of making it to his quarters just fine, but the saboteur wanted to ensure he actually got some rest instead of continuing to work. Reaching the door, he entered in the code, the tactician behind him seemingly unaware that they had arrived. Once Jazz had managed to coax him out of Command, all of Prowl’s spirit seemed to leave him. His wings drooped, quivering slightly. Standing in the bright lights of the hallway, the harsh shadows made his face seem haggard, white paint washed an unkempt gray, optics dull with exhaustion. Filing this away with concern, Jazz opened the door, letting Prowl enter first. The moment the door closed behind Jazz, Prowl stumbled and crashed to the floor. Optics flickered and went dark as the tactician froze for a single, long moment.

“Prowler?” Exclaimed Jazz, rushing to his friend’s side.

Prowl onlined to pain, face pulled into a grimace. The first sensation that flickered through his awareness was the pounding ache in his processor, quickly followed by the sting of a harsh landing on his knees. He could tell he was on the floor, but no idea where. Rebooting his optics and audios, his surroundings came into focus in a burst of sound and color. 

“You with me, mech?” Jazz asked gently, his soft tone still painfully loud to freshly rebooted audios, his expression pinched with concern as he leaned over his friend. 

“I am functional, Jazz.” The stoic mech replied, voice hoarse, further analyzing his situation as he attempted to sit up, Jazz placing one hand on his chassis to ease him upright. 

A quick scan of the room told him he was in his own quarters, albeit kneeling on the floor. Checking his memory logs, he recalled how he had arrived there. Leaving Command with Jazz. Sixteen joors of duty. The rescue efforts. Praxus.

Recalling that disaster was almost enough to send him spiraling, one hand reaching out to cling to Jazz’s shoulder as balance systems pinged with dizzying errors.

“Woah there, Prowler.” Jazz reached out to grab his side, keeping him from falling sideways. His other hand felt Prowl’s helm, drawing a muttered curse from the Polyhexian when the metal was searing hot. Reaching into subspace, he withdrew a cold pack, bending it to kickstart the chemical reaction that cooled its contents.

“Thought this might help. Your processor’s runnin’ hot.” Jazz said, offering the cold pack.

“I thank you.” The tactician croaked, accepting the proffered cold pack and placing it gently on his overheated helm. “Though I am curious as to why you have a cold pack in your subspace.”

“I, uh, starting keepin’ one on me after I saw ya crash the first time. Didn’t like bein’ helpless.” The saboteur admitted, managing a weak smile.

“I see. Thank you.” Prowl replied, tone more guarded than it had been a minute ago.

“Ya wanna talk about it? Ya know… what happened?” Jazz questioned gently.

“Not at this moment, no.” 

Jazz said nothing, simply nodding in response. 

“How ‘bout we get you off this floor and onto a berth, eh, Prowler?” He slipped an arm under the Praxian’s shoulder, careful to avoid the doorwings as he helped the black and white mech stand. 

They hobbled the few steps to the berth, an uncoordinated tangle of limbs as they managed to sit heavily on the edge. Jazz carefully slid in front of the other mech, surveying the dings and scrapes to his knees and chassis. One kneeplate had a large dent, warped metal grinding against the internal mechanisms.

“Looks like ya‘ve got some damage from yer fall. I can pop those dents out if ya’d like.” Jazz offered, tone carefully modulated to convey the proper blend of care, respect, and refusal to impose.

Prowl froze, considering for a moment. The sting of the dents was relatively mild, but nevertheless, it would be more comfortable to have them dealt with. He nodded silent assent and felt Jazz activate the magnets in his hands, a low powered pull just enough to reshape plating.

“The fatal error that caused the crash you just witnessed occurred approximately 8.35 joors ago while I was on duty in the Command Center.” Prowl stated suddenly.  

He could feel the surge of surprise and anger in Jazz’s field and in the gaze burning into his helm, the other mech’s steady hands pausing only for an instant.

“Don’t try ta lie ta me, Prowler. I’ve seen you crash. That ain’t it.” The saboteur growled.

Prowl said nothing, optics averted.

“Primus’s sake, mech. Are ya gonna tell me what’s wrong or what?”

Prowl’s engine choked, wings tensing in shock and a trace of horror.

“No, I-” He forced out. “Jazz, I am not certain I can.”

He knew Jazz would not have missed the pause in his sentence, doorwings tucking reflexively.

“That bad?” Jazz whispered, his hand resting on a black and white shoulder in comfort.

Prowl shifted on the berth, visibly uncomfortable. He met Jazz’s visored gaze with guarded optics, contemplation written in the lines of his face.

“What do you know of my origins, Jazz?” The tactician asked slowly, as if measuring the effect of his words. 

“Praxian Enforcer before the war. One of the best. Left to join the Autobots.” Jazz rattled off obediently, watching the other mech carefully.

“And what about the origins of my glitch?”

“Weak connection between your logical and emotional cortices. Your advanced logic, battle, and tactical computers make it worse. Any error or contradiction between them can cause a crash.” He answered quietly, traces of concern and sympathy in his voice.

“Passably correct, but not entirely accurate on both counts.” Prowl hummed quietly, brow furrowing as he analyzed for a moment, gaze averted.

“I am a pre-programmed mech.” Prowl sighed suddenly. “As is typical of all Praxian Enforcers, Emergency Response, and Security.”

Jazz twitched in a flicker of surprise and concern, but said nothing. It was best to simply let him speak when he had something to say.

“I was commissioned by the Praxian Enforcers to be a tactician, designed for the advanced processors required. My adult frame was presented to the Allspark with a helm full of specialized programming and equipment, ready to activate the moment my spark took up residence. I was sent to my duties not even a joor after I onlined.”

Prowl still looked uncomfortable, frame stiff and field pulled tight, a slight tremor in his doorwings. 

“I was programmed with everything necessary for my function - with one exception.” The tactician paused, as if choosing his wording carefully. “Praxian Enforcers are not programmed with any emotional or tactile files except pain. Moreover, they are not outfitted with emotional cortices to process such files.”

“What?” The Head of Special Operations demanded, the beginnings of fury simmering in the lines of his frame. “Explain.”

“Rage, passion, joy - none of these are able to be processed without the necessary hardware and software.” Prowl continued, forcing himself to meet Jazz’s gaze even as he pulled himself in tighter. “Pain does not replace these sensations, but rather pain is all Enforcers are programmed to be able to process. The sight of the Crystal Gardens or the touch of a friend produces nothing. There is simply no feedback. In such a state, a mech is reduced to little more than a drone with a spark.”

“Primus. That’s horrible.” Jazz sighed, hand running along the edge of his face. “What changed? You have emotions and an emotional processor now. Ain’t no way we missed that.”

“Yes, I now am fully equipped with standard emotional programming. As for how, there were a handful of dissenters among the Enforcer leadership - sparked mechs who objected to the treatment of the pre-programmed rank and file.” Prowl continued slowly, less tense as the palpable anger that had flooded Jazz’s field began to fade to a controlled simmer. “These dissenters created an underground network for those among the pre-programmed who desired a semblance of normalcy. Over the course of several vorns, I was able to make enough connections to find a medic willing to alter my programming and install an emotional cortex.

The procedure, while successful, was not without complications. The emotional cortex I was given was low quality, as my tactical, battle and advanced logic computers drain too much power for my systems to support anything else. Due to its low quality and power constraints, my emotional cortex is easily overwhelmed. This results in a critical conflict as both systems demand priority, creating the circumstances of my glitch.” He spoke without inflection, seemingly emotionless, his shame and fear only visible in the tension of his frame.

“I’m sorry. That slag ain’t right. If the Council and the Prime had known-”

“Jazz, they did know.” Prowl interrupted, optics suddenly ablaze. “How do you think Praxian officials were able to receive access to the Allspark? Sentinel and his Council knew and approved, even funding research to optimize the process. After Optimus took office, the production of pre-programmed mechs ceased. The Praxian government was not made of fools. They knew Optimus would not stand for such atrocities. But this did nothing to aid the thousands of pre-programmed mechs already in service.”

“Slag.” Jazz sighed. “That’s straight up slag. All those mechs - frag. I’m sorry, mech.” He sighed again. “But I gotta keeping askin’. That wasn’t a glitch earlier. So what’s goin’ on wit’ ya?”

“The Praxian government had complete control of the programming for all its preprogrammed mechs and little regard for their best interests, as demonstrated by their policy regarding emotions.” Prowl began to explain, hiding a wince. “The sole focus of the Praxian officials responsible for the Enforcer programming was duty, efficiency, and most importantly - loyalty. Hence they made that the sole focus of Praxian Enforcers as well - a focus it is nearly impossible to subdue or change.” His voice gained a distinct edge, demanding careful consideration of his words. “Praxian Enforcers are endlessly loyal by design.”

“Slag.” Jazz sighed, visor brightening as a thought suddenly struck him. “Oh, Primus.”

“What is it, Jazz?” Prowl asked, optics flashing with dark hope.

“Please tell me I’m wrong.”

“Jazz, what is it?” 

“Please tell me they didn’t-” Jazz lept up, unable to keep still.

“Jazz.”

“Oh, Prowler. Primus, I hope I’m wrong.”

“Jazz!” Prowl barked, the Polyhexian’s visor snapping around to meet icy blue optics.

There was a moment that passed between them when both knew what the other was afraid to say, the suspended over the gulf of truth between them, neither quite ready to cut the lines and face the harsh reality of the rocks below.

“Jazz…” Prowl whispered, optics pleading for something - whether to stop, to keep going or both was uncertain.

“Compliance coding.”

And the lines snapped, sending them freefalling past the no return.

Prowl sucked in a sharp vent, doorwings snapping to a stiff attention.

“Jazz-”

“That’s what this is, isn’t? What you’ve been circling around this entire time? Hinting at?” Tone sharp and angry, he barked his questions.

“I can’t-”

“Of course you can’t!” He was pacing now, steps long and raging. “It’s compliance coding, you can’t tell anyone. It won’t let you. Slag’s worse than slave coding.” 

“Jazz, please-”

“It least slaves can have it removed if they escape. At least it isn’t fragging core programming that can’t be removed without turning you into a drone.” He was furious, muttering under his breath as he continued to stomp around the room. “Primus damn those fraggers to the Pit. Creating mechs to treat them worse than scrap. Hard coding loyalty and then making disobedience agony. Slagging Pit-spawned-”

“Jazz!” The tactician snapped, finally getting the other mech’s attention.

His vocalizer suddenly shut off with a click, vents coming too fast. A wince suddenly pulled his optics shut, his whole frame quivering. 

“Prowler?” Jazz exclaimed, reaching out to hold the Praxian as his frame shivered and seized, vents heaving and pouring out heat. “Oh, slag, I’m sorry.”

Another shudder. A low whine.

“Compliance coding.” Jazz muttered angrily. “Frag those scrapheaps. Can’t even talk about it without it activating.”

“I should have been there.” Prowl said suddenly, optics unfocused. “I should’ve been in Praxus. I should’ve been with my brethren. I should’ve-”

“Listen to me.” Jazz demanded, grip on the tactician's upper arms firm. “You wouldn’t have survived if you’d been there. There’s nothing you could’ve done.”

“I would’ve been doing my duty. Praxus. Serve and protect. I failed my duty. I wasn’t there. And now Praxus is gone. I failed my duty.” Prowl stammered, growing more distressed. 

“You didn’t fail anything. You’d be dead if you’d been in Praxus.” Jazz tried to explain, optics wide behind his visor.

The tactician pulled away, curling into himself on a corner of the berth, back flush against the wall.

“I’d be dead if I’d been in Praxus. My duty was to be serve and protect Praxus. I should have been in Praxus. I should be dead.” 

His piercing blue optics were wide and distant, air around his helm hazy from heat even as his vents heaved. Jazz could almost see the terrible logic at work, the gaze of his best friend suddenly strange and unfamiliar. This was not the Prowl he knew.

“I should be dead.” Prowl repeated breathlessly.

“No. No, you shouldn’t be.” Jazz declared firmly.

A muffled keen rose from the huddled mech, hands cradling his burning helm. 

“But that’s what your programming is screaming at you isn’t it?”

A shaky nod. 

Jazz breathed a soft sigh of relief.

“Glad to know you’re still in there, Prowler.”

A whimper.

“Alright, Prowler, I’m gonna see if we can talk our way out of this. Ya think ya can manage to talk ta me?” Jazz asked softly, one hand stroking soothingly between the black and white mech’s doorwings.

A twitch of his doorwings. A raspy whisper.

“Yes.”

“Alright, here we go.” A heavy sigh. “What’s your primary duty according to your core programming?”

“To serve and protect Praxus and its citizens. A duty which I have failed.” Prowl gasped and shuddered again, biting back a wailing keen.

“Hush now, I didn’t ask if you were doing your duty.” Jazz said gently, now rubbing calming circles around the base of Prowl’s doorwings, the cables beneath his hands taut with stress. “What’s your primary duty?”

“To serve and protect Praxus and its citizens.”

“Define Praxus.”

“A Cybertronian citystate located in the southern hemisphere of the planet, bordered by Uraya and Polyhex. Affiliation: Neutral. Current governor-”

“That’s more than enough, Prowler. Keep it short and sweet, my mech.” 

A nod, less shaky than before.

“What are citizens of Praxus?”

“Praxians.”

Jazz chuckled humorlessly. “Literal as ever. Think a bit more general, Prowler.”

“Cybertronians.”

“Very good, my mech. So if Praxus is part of Cybertron, and all Praxians are Cybertronians, what does that mean for your primary duty?”

A pause, the room silent aside from the whir of Prowl’s cooling fans.

“Jazz?” He could hear the confusion in the other mech’s voice.

“If Praxus is part of Cybertron and all Praxians are Cybertronians, serving and protecting all of Cybertron and all Cybertronians would satisfy your core programming, yes?” Jazz explained, the arm around the tactician’s back subtly coaxing him away from the wall.

“Possibly.” Prowl’s vents were still too fast, the air still too hot.

“Give me the reasons it wouldn’t.”

“The actions necessary to ensure optimal protection of the Praxus may not be the actions that produce the optimal protection of Cybertron as a whole. The same is true in the inverse, leading to the situation we currently find ourselves in.” The Praxian winced again, doorwings fluttering as he curled into Jazz.

“What’s more important, one city or a whole planet?”

Another full frame shudder racked Prowl, optics flickering and vents hitching.

“I know, Jazz. I know. I understand that Cybertron as a whole is more important than any one city. I used the same arguments to appease my… to justify why I left Praxus to join the Autobots. That does not change the fact my existence demands my loyalty be to Praxus first and foremost.”

“But Praxus is gone, Prowler. You can’t be loyal to somethin’ that don’t exist anymore.”

“Then I am obsolete. If my city is dead, it is my final duty to die with it.”

A tense pause.

“Is that what you want, Prowl?” 

Vents hitched as wide optics turned to meet a visored gaze. 

“No.” Prowl stammered. “I… I don’t want to die, Jazz.”

“That’s just what your programming’s saying you should want.”

The Praxian nodded slowly, unable to speak.

“Then fight it, Prowler. Redefine your duty. Serve and protect? Protect the survivors by helping lead the Autobot army. Find the best way to keep other neutral cities safe. Serve the memory of Praxus by keeping its culture alive. And that means you. You’re a part of that culture and history. You have a duty, yes, but not to die - to live. Praxus is gone. There ain’t nothing anyone can do ta change tha’. But you can keep the memory of Praxus alive. And that means surviving this fragging war and doing your best to help as many other Cybertronians to the same. All of Cybertron‘s your city now, Prowler.”

“As our situation currently stands, there is a 54.3% chance that we will lose Cybertron.” 

Jazz’s visor dimmed as he processed that terrible possibility, but he forced himself to speak nevertheless.

“Then we’ll handle that if the time comes.”

Prowl shuddered once more, but the tension in his frame began to ease, a soft relieved sigh escaping.

“New core directive accepted: protect and serve Cybertron.” He declared quietly, exhaustion heavy in his voice. “Primary means of achieving core directive: win the war with minimum casualties and maximum efficiency. Secondary means of achieving core directive: continued service to the Autobot cause as Tactical Head.”

“Did that do it?” Jazz asked, a faint hopeful grin appearing as he looked down at the tactician.

“Yes, thankfully.” Prowl managed a weak smirk. “I should have sought your help earlier. You have truly mastered the art of creative interpretation.”

“Don’t you know it.”

“Especially in regards to direct orders.”

“What can I say? It’s a gift.” Jazz joked, visor glinting with humor. 

“Prowler,” He continued, suddenly serious. “How long did ya-”

“Since the message was first received by the Command Center.”

“Primus, mech!” Jazz exclaimed. “That long? Why didn’t ya step out? Or even just leave when your shift was over? This wouldna been half as bad if ya hadn’t waited so long.”

“True as that may be, can you honestly tell me there wouldn’t have been questions to my capabilities if I admitted such a weakness? If I was forced to step out in the middle of coordinating a mission? One is not granted the luxury of a reprieve in the midst of a battle.”

“Battle’s not the same thing as a rescue mission,” Jazz grumbled, “but I see your point. There woulda been gossip and questions.”

Prowl hummed an inarticulate noise of agreement, still leaning against Jazz’s chassis.

The saboteur glanced down and smiled, the typically stoic Praxian looking much like a sparkling drifting off to recharge as his doorwings flicked slowly and his frame grew slack.

“Alright, Prowler.” Jazz chuckled faintly. “I think it’s time ya get some ‘charge.”

“I think,” Prowl hummed as he forced himself to awareness, “that you are correct.”

“Ain’t I always?” Jazz grinned.

Prowl merely raised an optic ridge in disapproval, shifting back to lie down on the berth. He sighed heavily, and Jazz was struck by how very lost and forlorn he looked. In that moment, he remembered that beyond the coldness, calculations and coding, Prowl was still a mech. A mech who had just lost his people, his culture - his city. And despite the horrors Praxus had inflicted upon Prowl, the mech still viewed it as home.

“Do ya want me stay wit’ ya?” Jazz asked gently, sensing the weight of the day as it fell on the tactician’s tense shoulders. 

“I-” Prowl hesitated, the shadow of nightmares flickering behind exhausted optics.“Yes. Thank you.”

Jazz smiled gently, shuffling on the berth as the pair settled in. “Then I’m right here.”

**Author's Note:**

> I imagine this relatively early in the war, not long after the beginnings of Jazz and Prowl’s friendship, but before their respective promotions to Second and Third in Command. Also, a companion piece to this detailing the start of their friendship is in progress, which I hope to have done by the end of the summer. Constructive criticism is always welcome and thanks for reading!


End file.
